What Might've Been
by princ3ssf33t
Summary: If he had been a better man, this would have been their wedding. But it's not. Written for Royai Week 2017. Theme: Black Tie.


If he were a better man, this would have been _their_ wedding.

But it's not.

He can almost hear the whispers of his— _their_ —friends on the other side of the bathroom door. Almost, but not quite. But he doesn't need to know what they're saying, his mind gleefully fills in what he can't understand.

"And he _never_ told her how he felt?" That would be Rebecca's voice. It would incredulous at the thought that the infamous womanizer that he portrayed never once pursued a woman that caught his eye. Rebecca had never been shy about letting her opinions about him be known.

"Not that I'm aware. Declaring that you love your subordinate publicly would qualify for disciplinary action. But I'm sure we would have noticed a change in them if he had said anything. Saying something like that would change the dynamic between anyone." Jean would respond. He would probably be struggling to secure his own tie around his neck in the mirror outside the bathroom. Any moment now, Rebecca would get fed up with his futile struggle and take over.

"Really, Jean? Here, let me."

If he had the capability, he would smile at the accuracy of his prediction. It was all in his head. Of course he was correct. He leaned further over the bowl of the toilet.

How pathetic. He was a grown man. A general in the Amestrian military. He shouldered the responsibility of keeping the nation safe from military attacks, and he bore the understanding that his decisions would sent men and women home in a box, rather than happily reunited with their families at the end of the campaign. He should be sick over them. But he wasn't. He was sick because he was losing _her_.

"How do you think he's taking it?" Rebecca's voice would have dropped to an even quieter whisper.

That was odd. Why would Rebecca be the one in his imagination that inquired about his well-being? She never would have done so if she really had been speaking. Perhaps he was just that out of it, imagining people acting out of character in his moment of distress.

Jean was the one to respond. Of course he would. According to Roy's imagination, there was no one else outside the bathroom waiting for him to pull himself together.

"Badly. He'd deny it, but it doesn't take a genius to see what he won't admit. I've never seen the boss so out of it. He came in the other day, and he sat down and _went to work_. Even Hawkeye couldn't get him to do that. I'm sure she'd be impressed at him working without encouragement, when she wasn't concerned about his health." There would be a pause. "I don't think he's eating or sleeping very much anymore."

Jean never gave himself enough credit. He was much more observant and intelligent than he lead people to believe. That much translated from reality to his imaginings without error.

Jean was right of course. In the time since _this_ came to his attention, anything that resembled an appetite disappeared. And sleep was a no-go. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see her face. Exactly the way it was when reality hit both of them. Brown eyes wide, wider than her throat was cut on the Promised Day. Her short hair disheveled, still wind-tossed from they had been outside. Her lips had been in a thin line, eyebrows scrunched down, and her hand rested above her heart.

Blood slipping through the spaces between her fingers.

He groaned out her name as he retched into the toilet again. Nothing came out. There was nothing to come out. He hadn't been able to eat anything for the past day and a half. Anything that had been in his stomach had been expelled the previous day.

Still, some of his bile dripped down his chin and landed on his black tie as he pulled back.

"Fuck," he muttered.

Prying himself from the ceramic bowl, he stumbled out out of the stall and braced himself against the porcelain sink. He didn't need to look in the mirror to see his reflection. He knew what he looked like. There were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and what constituted as a five o'clock shadow graced his cheeks.

He looked like shit.

A knock on the door caught his attention. He ignored it. He was in no mood or condition to deal with anyone.

The door opened anyway.

"Hey, Boss, everyone was wondering if—Shit, you look terrible."

It was Havoc. In the flesh. Unless his imagination was spreading out in include hallucinations. He wouldn't be surprised at this point. He grunted in agreement anyway.

"We're about to start the service. Grumman was wondering if you were going to make an appearance. Granted, if you do show up, he may push you to speak a few words. You knew her better than anyone." Jean walked into the bathroom a few steps. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a thin black cloth. It took a moment to recognize the tie.

Havoc grabbed his shoulder and spun him away from the mirror. He went willingly. He had no energy to resist anymore. Havoc swiftly undid the tie around his neck and dropped it in wastebasket, before replacing it with the clean one. Havoc left the tie undone, and backed away. He was at the door before he stopped and spoke again.

"I'm sure she would like to know that you managed to make an appearance at her funeral. She wouldn't want you to shut yourself up like this. We're all here for you."

He made no comment in response and Havoc exited the bathroom. He caught a couple fragments of questions from others that were waiting outside of the bathroom for him. Whatever Havoc's response was was lost when the bathroom closed him off from the rest of the world again.

His hand drifted up to grab the tie Havoc had left behind for him. It was silky black and had his initials embroidered on the back. It had been buried deep in his wardrobe after what happened. It had been one the last gifts she had given him. If his imagination kicked up, he could almost smell the familiar gun oil scent that never seemed to leave her hands.

He dropped it and grabbed one of the metal chains that hung around his neck. One was his, the other hers. He had swiped it before the officials could get a hold of it. It was illegal, but he didn't care. It kept her close.

It was all his fault. The target was meant for him, and she did what she always did. She protected him. And it cost her. It always cost her. And he never did anything to make it any different. The small gold band around his chain she never got to see told of this.

If he had been a better man, this could have been their _wedding_.


End file.
